Feversong

During my brief interrogation by the sentience on the world with three moons, I’d realized how appropriate the appellations Light Court and Dark Court were for the Seelie and Unseelie. The king’s memories had always held some kind of shadowed murkiness, a masculine darkness. They’d been visceral, blunt, cast in harsh shades of icy blues, bleached whites, and inky blacks.

The presence I’d encountered today was the polar opposite: brilliant as a sun, radiant, gentle, feminine, and the flowers on the vast mound had been every color of the rainbow plus countless more. I’d felt right there. Good. Part of something Nature herself embraced.

I wondered at the origins of the Fae. Wondered how the Seelie could be so emotionless and icy when the Magic I’d felt today was so warm and welcoming. I wondered if the True Race had always been the way they were now, or if something had happened to change them.

Then I wondered no more because Barrons entered the room and my body quickened with interest, desire, anticipation, lust.

He passed behind me, lightly touched my hair, and headed for the door. “Get some sleep. You need it,” was all he said.

I opened my mouth to ask where he was going then remembered all the reasons I never asked Barrons that question and said instead, “Jericho.”

He stopped walking instantly, turned, and stared at me through the low light. “Mac.”

“Do you have to go?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then why are you?”

His dark gaze was inscrutable. “Because this is what we do. You and I. Leave each other alone.”

Whuh. I went still, processing what he’d just said. I’d heard it completely differently than he’d said it. I’d heard: You, Ms. Lane, have always set the pace, the ground rules, determined the way we behave with each other. I toe your motherfucking line.

I opened my mouth to shape the question, And if I’d like to change that? Then realized the cowardice inherent. It was hypothetical, fishing, seeking reassurance, shifting the weight of any decision or commitment back to him. It was refusing to put myself on the line by actually telling him what I wanted from our relationship.

“I’d like to change that,” I said carefully. “I think it would be nice if we spent more time together.” I cringed because it sounded far hokier hanging in the air all naked and exposed like that than it had in my head. Now he would mock me, toss some pithy comment my way, or join me on the Chesterfield, thinking I wanted to have sex.

He did none of those things, merely inclined his dark head, shadows swirling in his ancient obsidian eyes. “What do you have in mind?” he said softly.

Softly. There was danger here.

And much more.

The moment stretched between us, pregnant with possibility, reminding me of another moment, in what felt like another lifetime, when I’d believed we won the day and defeated the Sinsar Dubh by laying it to rest beneath the abbey. I’d been drunk on victory, buoyed by the sure knowledge that our battle had been fought and was over for good.

My life was about to finally get back to normal after a long, hellish nine months. I could see a future for myself again.

I’d been through the storm and survived. I’d lost my sister, found out I was adopted, nearly been killed, learned to lie, cheat, steal, and kill, been gang-raped and turned Pri-ya, almost been killed a few more times, killed Barrons, been nearly seduced by the Sinsar Dubh’s illusion of the parents I’d so desperately wanted, killed Rowena, yet still survived to lay the archvillain of the whole piece to rest for good.

I’d said that very day to Jericho Barrons, Bet your ass you’re mine, bud. I’d staked my claim, openly, clearly, in front of everyone, ready to plunge into every fascinating, sexy, intimate, personal aspect of a relationship with him.

Then I’d learned my battle wasn’t over.

A worse one loomed ahead.

I’d merely gotten a breather before round two.

The villain that had killed so many people, so brutally, had an evil twin. And it was inside me. Words can’t express the depths of horror and despair I’d felt.

Discovering, roughly a month and a half ago, my time—three and half months ago for the world—that I harbored within me untapped potential for murder, chaos, and destruction, that my fight might never be over, had changed me.

I’d never bought for a single moment that I could simply walk away, not open it and escape unscathed. Somehow I’d known that the battle I’d just been through was going to seem like a piece of cake compared to the one I was headed for.

The day I’d discovered the Sinsar Dubh was really there at the bottom of my lake, and I was—let us be perfectly fucking precise here—possessed (and by God, I’d wanted a full-fledged exorcism), I’d begun retreating.

I’d lost the last week of May and most of June in the Silvers. I spent the final days of June and most of July throwing up barrier after barrier between Barrons and me.

I’d simplified and objectified our relationship into one of lust and boundaries, and while both were necessary for a good relationship, it took a lot more than that to make it an epic one.

Things we had, like respect and trust, but also freely expressed desires and accountability to whatever degree it took to make both people happy. It took work, a willingness to fight passionately and fairly—out of bed, not just in it—commitment and honesty. It took waking up and saying each day, I hold this man sacred and always will. He’s my sun, moon, and stars. It took letting the other person in; a thing I’d stopped doing. It took being unafraid to ask for what you wanted, to put yourself on the line, to risk it all for love.